what they're being taught to accomplish. Truth-telling. Somewherethey brought out the objective-correlative, eventually. It looked likean old, foot-long rubber sausage. Young writers all around squeezed,rubbed and stroked it. One of the old writers took it by one end,

made a grand gesture of a job blowing it, twisted it into apretzel of air and let it float, bounce about the workshop hall.That was the day's form and content. The next day's assignment?

Catch a metaphor, alive if possible.Not easy because the slipperythings kept changing shape, from cobra to tin can to toothy vagina.

For the first time, I wasn't listening. I wasn'tteaching. I didn't care about craft anymore.

I was thinking of the Baguio woodcarver, sitting on a wicker chair,who stomped his foot, sending a cloud of red earth flyingabout us. He told me: I was a guitarmaker in Cebu. I once made

a special guitar with strings made from my wife's hair. Hair I collectedthe seven years we were married, collected because I loved her.Then I hated my wife, and I made the guitar. He brought the guitar

out and played it for me. The fog was creeping towards our feet, itswhiteness broken by long streaks of red earth, threads of bloody spittle.